the roadsides firmly flush with bushes and wildflowers for now brown and the third as the swept by fire. here and there in mysterious white powder clung to the rooftops and lay in the gutters of the houses in the town, deadly traces of something that followed? know from the skies on the weeks before and everywhere was an ominous quiet, a silence the close of the town is surrounded to the living world is the area had become in tune. it was a strange stillness. the birds, for example, where they can't? many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. the feeding stations and factories were deserted. a few birds seen anywhere were moribund. they trembled violently and could not fly. it was a spring without voices. on the morning that once job with the dawn chorus of robbins, does come the jays, friends, scores of other purposes is now no sound, only silence lay over the fields and woods in the marsh. in the space of just 10 paragraphs come at "the new yorker" combined them into three, carson had written a story at the end of the world. book reader in 1962 could fail to see in this descrip